


Flock

by ayjee



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayjee/pseuds/ayjee
Summary: Lambert and Keira - it’s not all fun and games on the road from Kaer Mohren.





	Flock

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a whole lot to inquisitor_tohru for going over this <3 remaining mistakes all mine

Lambert pokes at the food in front of him. It’s hot, he’ll give it that much. As far as peasant cooking goes, it’s decent; for a wedding dish, it’s shit. He suspects he was given the dullest one too.

No matter. Being relegated to the kitchen means he can help himself to whatever he wants. If the family was counting on his manners to keep him off the goods, they’ve got another thing coming.

At least the beer is okay, he thinks while wiping foam from his moustache. He makes a note to spit in as many pitchers as he can before leaving. Serves them right for being superstitious dipshits.

The door creaks open as he’s wolfing down a second serving of mushroom soup. He frowns, ready to chew up whatever poor bastard the fiance’s parents have sent to check up on him, but it’s only Keira, tits about to spill from her bodice as usual. _She_ wasn’t grounded in the kitchen, of course. No, the sorceress has been given a free pass to mingle with the guests. Imagine, an actual magician! Word has it she _talks to birds_!

Lambert knows he’s getting the better end of the deal, surrounded with food and no one to try and chat him up. Doesn’t mean he can’t resent his current employers for not wanting a witcher around, not even the one who solved their little “drowner problem”.

Keira lets herself fall on the bench across the table from him. There's something different about her scent, but he can't pinpoint it. Too many smells in the kitchen. “You having fun there, master witcher?”

“Yeah, I’m having a fucking ball,” he sneers, taking in her flushed cheeks and the small hair curling at her temples. “You certainly look like you're enjoying yourself. Dancing started yet?”

“Yes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s no court ball..., but the musicians are okay, and there were a couple of decent dancers.” She runs a hand through her hair and only then does Lambert realize what that lingering smell is. He scoffs as she untangles her long hair from the ornament on top of her head.

“Aren't you a bit old for flower crowns? Meaning your real age here, and none of that glamour.”

Keira purses her lips. “That’s not a very nice thing to say. And what’s wrong with flower crowns?” She reaches for something on the bench and presents him with a handful of wild flowers. “Look, I got one for you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah! To hide your bald spots,” she says, and dumps the offending confection into his bowl.

“You fucking-- I was eating that,” he shouts. By the time he’s done fishing twigs out of his soup, she’s gone. _Fuck her, fuck this contract_ , Lambert thinks, and throws the dripping crown to the ground.

He pours himself another pint, mostly for dramatic effect. If he wanted to get truly wasted, he’d need stronger stuff than beer… and in far more impressive quantities. Thanks, mutations.

The moon’s coming out from behind the treeline when he steps out of the house and meets the father of the groom’s eyes from across the courtyard. The man’s face _falls_ , like Lambert’s very existence is gonna ruin the party. A welcome stroke to his ego, even though the actual guests pay him little attention - music’s died down and most of them are chatting in small groups. He spots a few couples by the riverbank, the men naked from the waist up. One is waddling in the water already and cursing at how cold it is, to the others’ amusement.

Well… what’s a northern wedding without a death or two?

Standing apart from the crowd with her arms crossed, Keira’s watching the swimmers as well. She doesn’t turn to greet him, but her frown deepens as he approaches.

“At least the drowners can’t be held responsible this time,” he says casually.

"Hush, you’ll jinx us.”

“You going soft on Velen youth?”

She snorts. “Please. It just so happens that I have no desire to bring dead peasants back to life.”

“Thought you enjoyed performing magic. Being the life of the party.”

“It was fun until I had to zap a man’s hand away from my behind.” Lambert opens his mouth to say something, but she holds a hand up. “Don't worry, he won’t suffer any permanent damage.”

“Don’t _worry_?”

Keira turns back to the group of swimmers. “No need to. We’ll get paid in spite of this little incident, I made sure of that.”

“I’m not worried, I’m mad!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice so much; a few guests cast curious glances in their direction. Keira smiles warmly at them over his shoulder and the next thing he knows, she’s hooked a hand around his neck and yanked him down to her level.

“Keep it down, you big baby,” she says through gritted teeth. “I said I got this.”

Lambert forces his voice down to an angry whisper. Good enough. “Did I miss something? I thought we got hired to kill drowners. Your presence at the wedding was a nice bonus, but i don't remember anything about your ass being free to palm.”

“It’s not,” she says flatly. “But like I said, I set things straight.”

He won't be mellowed by the feel of her hand on his neck. “I’m gonna kill that fucker.”

“Over what,” she smirks, “a groped butt? And they say witchers are cool…”

“Guess some of us are just more warm-blooded than others,” he says. _Definitely_ not a jab at Geralt.

“There’s warm, and then there’s stupid. I can defend myself.”

“I know that--"

“Let it go, Lambert.”

Might as well ask him to turn into a fucking unicorn, but he can't think of a comeback other than, “I don’t like it.” Which sounds... weak, to put it kindly. Her hand drops from his shoulder.

“That’s not really any of my concern, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“Glad you agree. Now, shall we collect our payment and leave this place? I’m done being sociable,” she says, fluffing her robes around her.

The groom’s father is even sleazier than during the day, if possible, blowing smoke up Lambert’s ass and fawning over Keira. Doesn’t prevent him from trying to cut corners every way he can, from “graciously gifted food” to “drowners that might’ve escaped”, to “the master witcher’s intense presence possibly causing an uproar among the guests” _._

It’s not until the man brings up the unfortunate incident that might have cost a dear friend his right hand -- an ill-inspired move, no doubt, but who could blame him, in the face of such wanton beauty? -- that Lambert truly _snaps,_ lifts him by the collar of his shirt and knocks him against the nearest wall, knocking down a painted plate in the process. Uproar? The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word, but Lambert will gladly show him.

It takes a few long seconds for the blood to stop rushing in his ears, and then the man’s hysterical babbling starts making sense, a whining string of _please_ and _don’t_.

“I think he got your point,” Keira says, her voice low in his ears. “Let him down.”

Lambert does. The poor bastard drops to the floor in a puddle of shaking limbs, reeking of fear -- and urine. It’s just a matter of asking again nicely after that.

Midnight finds them saddled up and heavier by two hundreds and fifty orens, following the treeline to the next village. Keira stifles a yawn. “We could just have slept there, you know.”

He pats the satchel before him; the coins clink nicely against each other. “The inn was just down the road, way too close for my liking. Didn’t wanna risk being woken up by an angry mob.”

“It’s not like we robbed the man. More the opposite, if you ask me.”

“Irrelevant, with a gut full of beer.”

Keira casts him a sidelong glance. “Are you telling me you can't handle a couple of peasants?”

He rubs a hand over his mouth. The coin put him in a good mood, as did the witch’s breasts, bouncing in rhythm with her mount’s steps. He’s not ready to ruin it all just yet. “Tell you what, let’s find a place for the night and then I’ll be happy to educate you on pogroms.”

She bursts out laughing. “That sounds like a real treat, but no thanks. However…” Her voice trails off and from the corner of his eye, Lambert sees her fiddling with the ankh pendant. “If you’re feeling awake, I have other ideas to pass time.”

“Yeah?” Cool as ice. Not like he’s been thinking about her tits since they left Kaer Morhen. “Can’t say I’m not tempted, but also curious to know what brought this on.”

“What can I say,” Keira smiles and pushes hair away from her face. “I love a man getting his hands dirty to defend my honor. ”

“So my violent streak really gets you going, eh? Or is it the smell of piss?”

“Both.” She smirks. “It’s a Temerian thing.”


End file.
